Pope Francis invited me to his birthday party and I went. In a rush. I was so happy he invited me, and I told him so. I even told him, "I love you and I'm going to marry you." He laughed. I hugged him so many times. At least sixteen. He was greeting people while holding me, and since I care about him so much, I gave him lots of hugs. And he hugged me back. I told him that in just a few days it would be my birthday too. He wished me a happy birthday and gave me a beautiful kiss. Pope Francis's birthday party was wonderful. I had so much fun. The place was huge, and there were children there, and some older kids too. Like me—I'm sixteen. They had prepared a really simple dance. Very pretty. Not hard. They each held a cardboard star. Yellow. There was a letter on the back. And if you read all the letters together, they spelled out "Happy Birthday Pope Francis." I grabbed a star even though I hadn't rehearsed. I started running and got right up in front of the Pope. I showed him the letter and then went back to join the others.
Everyone did what I did. Then he blew out his candle. He turned eighty-three. Not very old. My grandmother is ninety-one and a half. We sang him happy birthday. In Italian. I know it in English too, but we didn't sing it in English. Then he cut the cake. But we didn't eat it. I asked why. But Pope Francis had to leave after a little while to say a prayer. All the other guests stayed for lunch and then ate the cake. I didn't eat any because I didn't stay for lunch. It was Sunday and on Sundays I always eat at my grandmother's house. Where the party was, there was also a beautiful nativity scene. Big. It looked real. When Pope Francis saw it, he made the sign of the cross. So I did too. I didn't give the Pope a gift. But he gave me one: he invited me and gave me kisses and hugs and embraces.